fragments
by symphonies of you
Summary: "Nothing about this is sunshine, daisies, rainbows, and a bucket load of foolish happiness. It's more like a dark skyline dotted with an infinite number of clouds that suddenly roar with sheets of raindrops spontaneously bursting into flames that lick the rain-soaked earth." -rosescorpius, one-shot.


**Back with another rosescorpius fic for you guys. And a little warning for those of you that don't commend cursing: there's a fair bit in here. And for you prudes out there, there are a few snogs here and there.**

**Just thought I should let you know beforehand.**

**DISCLAIMER: Don't own. JKR does. :)**

* * *

/

_Dear Rose,_

/

No, this isn't your average fairytale where boy meets girl and they instantly fall in love and everything is okay.

No. This isn't a love story at all.

These are just fragments of an intended love story that spell out a never ever after of broken kisses, broken hearts, broken boundaries, broken people.

Nothing about it is picture-perfect. Okay, maybe, possibly, somehow, it _is _in its own flawed way.

Maybe, if you look close enough through the crisscrossing cracks of a splintered eyeglass.

(From a twisted, ironic perspective dripping of regret.)

/

_It's been a while._

/

A flurry of emotions. A secretive smile. A stolen glance. A casual brushing of his arm against hers.

Something about this is just so alluring and enticingly _dangerous_.

He sits behind her in class. Rose Weasley, resident Gryffindor princess and smart aleck, yours truly. He hates it when she gets technical, when she gets cross with him. She constantly ridicules everyone, criticising everyone's stupidity and actions. He hates the fact that she always manages to win every battle of wit and insult. He hates the enthralling spark ignited in her sapphire eyes when she's storming her way through their rows.

It's all for show. They never really mean anything they say. Or so Scorpius thinks. They're just putting on a dandy, _peachy-keen_ show for the annoyingly curious spectators.

She sits in front of him in class. Scorpius Malfoy, resident Slytherin prince and insolent jerk, loved by many. She envies him; she envies the fact that people like him for who he is whereas people only like her because she's a daughter of war heroes. She hates his drawl, that low, smooth voice that sets her heart racing. He curses like a sailor, an incessant string of unnecessary words spewing from his lips. He's always smirking at her, like he knows something she doesn't, and it infuriates her to no end. She never fails to receive that prickling sensation tickling the nape of her exposed neck, signifying someone is watching her, and she scowls when she turns around and sees that stupid trademark smirk form upon his lips.

They're not perfect. Not even _close_.

/

_Two years since we last spoke, I think._

/

It just happened. The kiss. They swear they didn't mean for it to happen.

(Of course they didn't.)

He has her backed up against the stone wall in the lone corridor. She's staring up at him with fury alight in those pools of unending blue as she shrieks at him for whatever he's done now. He is shouting back at her, and they're practically in each other's faces now.

Close enough that his nose barely grazes hers for a split second and all they can feel is _shockshockshock_.

He steps back with amusement outlining the smirk playing at his lips. She gawks at him with pure bewilderment spreading across the features of her freckled face. She's not so good at concealing her emotions, her fatal flaw being that she involuntarily wears her heart on her sleeve.

His breath fans her tingling face.

Peppermint.

Her eyelids flutter shut. "Just kiss me, you bloody prat," she whispers upon the dawning realisation of how frustratingly beautiful he is in his blonde-haired, stormy-eyed glory.

He peers down at her, the freckles splayed across the bridge of her nose, the red of her wild curls, the eyelids hiding the blueness of her entrancing eyes. His eyes travel down her face and he curses under his breath when he notices how fucking _delectable _her lips are. No, he won't give her satisfaction by obeying her absurd request.

They hate each other. They bloody _hate _each other.

"Honestly, Weasley, you call me a prat and expect me to snog you? Merlin, women are so bipol—"

She grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him down to her to bridge the unnecessary gap between their mouths.

And everything is turned upside down.

It's a tangled mesh of _hatehatehate_ and _wantwantwant_, and somehow it's messily glorious. She's _firefirefire _hot and he's _ice_ cold, and conflicted emotions intertwine, dance, fuse into something that is neither hate nor love nor lust. She laces her fingers through his perfect, bad boy hair and gasps when his hand moves lower, lower, lower to her waist and draws her nearer.

It's in this moment she thinks she could deal with—maybe even _love_—him despite his faults. It's in this moment he thinks he could deal with her—maybe even _love_—despite her faults. In a moment of beautiful defiance that deliberately and accidentally rebels against their parents' utmost wishes.

In a fleeting moment of naivety, they believe they could maybe work. Somehow. Miraculously. _Perfectly_.

He breaks away from her, the grey of his normally stoic eyes darkening in disbelief as he breathes labouredly. Her lips are slightly parted and she touches her lips with her finger as her lips curve into a satisfied smirk.

He stares at those lips, those swollen lips he has just kissed. Did they really just snog?

There's no telling with Weasley.

But he's already addicted to the heat of her against him, the inevitable quickening of his heartbeat, the breathlessness that comes with her kisses. _Hopelessly addicted._

Her mind is reeling and dizzied from the heat, the perfection of his kisses. Godric, she _knows _he would laugh if he knew half the thoughts flying through her unfocused mind. Bloody hell, her mind has melted into a puddle of Godric-know-what, and her thoughts have turned to incoherent gibberish that she can't understand. Who knew Scorpius Malfoy could kiss _like that_?

Oh right, the countless lovesick girls he's snogged and brainwashed with his stupid, ridiculous charm. Another lovely reminder of why she shouldn't get involved with the wanker.

But she's always had a flair for breaking rules. Recklessness is a virtue, not honesty.

"It was fun kissing you, Malfoy. I wouldn't mind doing it again," she calls as she flounces off to Charms.

For the first time ever, a girl had the last word before Scorpius Malfoy.

_And _she also happened to render him speechless.

/

_I think I miss you._

/

She's like a burning inferno blazing her way through the icy defences of his exterior.

And he can't stop staring at her. Whenever she's in the room, his eyes are immediately drawn to her for some unfathomable reason. He's impossibly frustrated by her unintentional hold over him. How is she doing this to him? It's getting quite ridiculous by now. Girls don't do this to him; it only happens to those naïve, moronic ponces in those Muggle films, doesn't it?

Maybe he's been watching too many Muggle films.

But he wants her so bad. He needs the taste of her in his mouth, the texture of her fiery curls between his fingers, the softness of her pale skin meeting his hands. He needs to see the ocean of her eyes focusing on the brewing storm in his eyes.

He needs to hate her, but somehow he can't.

Whenever she turns around, he's always looking at her with an unreadable expression. It drives her mad. Does he think about the kiss? A blush never ceases to stain her cheeks at the mere mention of it. Godric, she can't bloody concentrate when he looks at her like that. She _needs _to know what's going on inside his head; it's not curiosity anymore.

As soon as the professor dismisses class, she dashes out of her seat and, without thinking, she moves to seize the ends of his robes before he can run off. Her eyes scream _don't ask_ as she drags him to a nearby corridor. Thank Merlin that Hogwarts has so many corridors.

He looks at her, and she looks at him. Tumultuous ocean waves colliding with an endless stormy summer sky. She shoots him a wry smile and bites her lip in nervousness.

Now what?

He's on autopilot, he swears he's doing all of this involuntarily.

(Or maybe, he's just in denial.)

Maybe it is the lip bite. Maybe it is the glint in the dark hue of her inquisitive eyes. Maybe it is the freckles, the smile, the shyness. But he takes her by the hand—Salazar, she has small hands—and draws her to him, carelessly capturing her lips with his. He just wants to kiss her; he doesn't give a flying fuck about what the world would think of it.

Impulsive kisses. Electrifying touches. Tingling bodies.

Her body trembles at the blatant chemistry emanating from the two of them, their bodies fitting together so perfectly like jigsaw puzzle pieces of the same puzzle. This isn't supposed to happen. She isn't supposed to fall for him, for Scorpius Malfoy. She isn't supposed to defy _all _the rules. Not gravity. When she's kissing him, it feels like she's broken away from the laws of gravity and she's _floating_. Floating on air, like a feather hopelessly entangled with a breeze, like in a fucking cheesy romance novel she's read before. And she's burning at the same time, melting into a pool of _wantneedlustlove_.

(What would her mum say? Or worse, her father?)

No, he doesn't hold her like she's a fragile porcelain doll, he doesn't kiss her like she's glass and she could break any second like in those deceptive fairytales singing woven lies of perfection. He's kissing her with a frenzied pace impassioned with desperation that suggests she's his oxygen and he needs her like she needs him. In a complete trance-like state of the mind, she hitches her leg around his torso as their lust-ridden pace quickens towards something she may or may not forget. His hands gently brush the skin under her shirt as his tongue playfully teases hers.

She knows she should smack his bloody hands away for venturing towards the lower part of her body, but everything is hazy and her mind is working at the speed of a snail trying to climb Mount Everest. Key word being "trying."

Dammit, they hate each other. Or, well, they _did_. The notion of them furiously snogging in a corridor would have been ridiculous a few days ago, but here they are. And it's perplexing. The whole idea is.

Temptation is a cruel mistress, and he knows it. But he smirks wickedly against her soft lips and allows his hands to wander to her skirt, her thighs, her knickers. She gasps into the heat of his mouth, and he just teases her, groaning as his lips move to her arched neck and his nose is met with sensual scents of jasmine and lilies.

A groan. She pulls away from him and pushes him away, dropping to the ground in a daze with jelly for legs. What the _actual fuck _just happened?

She opens her mouth to say something, but no actual words are spilled. He grins—it's the most fun in the world rendering Weasley speechless.

"Having fun yet, Weasley?" he cheekily asks with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Possibly," she breathily murmurs.

"A suggestion, if I may. We should continue snogging and figure out what this mess is along the way. What do you say, Weasley?" he replies confidently, throwing in a casual wink that should make her swoon.

It didn't.

"If you're charming enough, I might let you," she smiles.

Two can play at the game.

/

_I think about you. A lot. _

/

Stolen kisses after midnight. Hushed whispers of what could be. Long nights under the moonlight.

Maybe they were meant to be in another life, maybe in another parallel universe.

But in this life, it's more like hopelessly clinging onto a continual rope of impossibility.

Told you nothing good would come out of this. Nothing about this is sunshine, daisies, rainbows, and a bucket load of foolish happiness. It's more like a dark skyline dotted with an infinite number of clouds that suddenly roar with sheets of raindrops spontaneously bursting into flames that lick the rain-soaked earth.

There are no flowery print dresses, no collared dress shirts with a simple black tie, no bouquet of calla lilies, no candlelight dinners. It's all secrecy and _hush please don't tell_. Everything about them screams _forbidden_ and it's like a game—owling each other late at night, writing sardonic love notes, meeting under their tree when everyone's asleep, holding hands as they walk down moonlit stoned paths, breathing in the scent of _Rose and Scorpius_ that lingers in the midnight air.

They just talk and talk and talk about nothing and everything between kisses for hours until the sun decides to peep over the horizon. She learns he's not just a playboy who lives his life with no regrets, she learns he actually has feelings, thoughts, _fears_ like any other normal person. He learns she's not just a whiny bird who overreacts over little slip-ups, he learns she is constantly pressured to live up to her parents' legacy, to hold up the Weasley name, to be _perfect_.

A lingering kiss on the cheek. A whispered goodbye that seems like it'll be the last every time. A last look over her shoulder at his retreating figure.

She just wants to be held, to be loved, to be wanted for who she is. And he just wants to be _Scorpius_, not the Slytherin ice prince.

But dreams are dreams, and in reality, she's just another Weasley lost in a sea of red hair, and he's just a charming boy with a smirky mouth that simply begs to be kissed.

/

_So meet me at the ice cream parlour on Saturday at three?_

/

She's a bloody goody two-shoes. Or at least she _was_ until Scorpius entered her love life.

Somehow, he's managed to convince her to sneak out to Hogsmeade with him tonight. On a _date_. Not a proper one, but it's still a date. And it's good enough for her.

She's wearing a flowery print dress, and he's wearing a white collared dress shirt with a simple black tie. He handed her a calla lily back at the castle before they left, rubbing the back of his neck and biting his bottom lip in anticipation. She had thrown her arms around him and breathed in his familiar scent of rain and soap and cologne and _just Scorpius_.

Who says fantasies can't become reality?

She loves holding his hand; her hand seems so small compared to his. She just feels so _safe _with him, so safe for the first time even though she knows he might just break her heart one day.

She once promised herself she wouldn't ever fall for boys like Scorpius Malfoy.

But it's worth it. He's worth it.

Besides, it's too late. She's fallen far too hard.

(And so has he.)

Holding the door of Three Broomsticks open for her, he motions for her to enter first and she can't help but grin at his adorable attempts at being a gentleman. Everything's picture-perfect in the moment. And maybe it's wishful thinking, but a thought of being together in public one day with their families' approval crosses her mind.

He orders two butterbeers for the two of them with a smile towards the bar maid, who has the fucking _audacity _to blush. She frowns. Damn his good looks, his charm, his everything, his perfection. But when he looks back at her and smiles that rare, special smile he says is for her and her only, she melts all over again. Godric, fancying him this much should be considered unhealthy.

She thinks he's her Prince Charming, the perfect boy envisioned in her childhood daydreams swirling with incomplete fairytales of fabricated fantasies. She's scared that this is progressing much too rapidly, that they've gone from hate to love much too rapidly. But this just feels so right, so perfect, so _surreal_.

He looks at her. He just looks at her. And he can't help but smile because everything about this, her, them is just perfect in spite of all the imperfections and wrongs about their relationship—or whatever it can be called. He wakes up to her smile every morning, he hears her laughter ringing above all the other voices in the Great Hall, he daydreams about kissing her until they're both dizzy, he feels uncomfortable and wrong all over whenever they stage their fights to appease the nosy student population, he falls asleep to the vivid image of her impossibly blue eyes in his mind. He thinks he's going mad because how can someone possibly think about another person that much in a single day?

He thinks he might love her. It makes sense. He can finally label all of these things as love and breathe a sigh of relief because he now knows he's not going mad.

(Or is it true love drives people insane?)

He's so scared, he's so scared because one good thing has finally gone right, and he's so fucking scared that it'll be taken away from him, that he'll muck things up like he always does. He never thought love could feel so real, so _good_. He never thought he'd find someone who would listen to him and actually _understand_. He's never been a gentleman to a girl before, and it feels pretty damn nice making Rose smile that glorious smile that induces a smile of his own.

He loves her.

So he tells her.

And she whispers those three little words back to him because love is love and she's absolutely sure this is love because how much better can it get?

Their hearts race with euphoria running through their veins as they dare to hope.

/

_Love,_

_Scorpius._

/

It's April, and they're frantically scrambling for books and quills and parchment with ink-stained fingers. She's busy cramming for NEWTs. And he is, too, but he needs a breath of fresh air from being holed up in the Library for hours and he's itching to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her. He knows too well that her studies are much too important to (her mother) her, but he still feels a rush of irritation at the lack of interaction between them.

He's lonely. Too lonely.

Wandering down the corridors, he takes a swig from his sixth bottle of firewhisky and wonders if Rose is free. Probably not. He should probably go over the magical properties of _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ again, but he's too wasted to even do anything but think about Rose.

He hears a high-pitched giggle off in the distance.

(Is it coming closer?)

Squinting his eyes against the light of the sun's rays splashing across his vision, he sees a blonde girl running closer, closer, closer to him.

Shit. It's one of his old fuck buddies. What's her name again?

(Cecilia? Mara? Kristen?)

"Scorpy, I've missed you so much! I haven't talked to you in _ages_," the girl chirps enthusiastically.

"Shut the fuck up. You're making my head hurt," he groans as he takes another swig from his near-empty bottle.

She attempts to pout sexily (she looks like a fucking _duck_) and throws in a wink as she casually asks, "We haven't snogged in _so_ long, Scorpy. Should we fix that?"

He mimes gagging. "No. Remove yourself from my presence and kindly get the fuck out of my way," he responds coldly.

Well, as coldly as possible since he's drunk off his arse and he probably slurred all of his words together into a string of bloody nonsense.

She giggles. "Are you drunk?" she asks, feigning innocence.

"No," he mutters resignedly.

Shit, he doesn't like where this is going.

She's stepping closer, closer, closer to him. Too close. He backs up warily and curses when his back hits the wall. He knows he should probably run away (in a totally manly fashion that doesn't make him appear a cowardly pansy), but he's too sloshed to do more than stumble a few steps before she catches up with him. So he just stands there like a fool, and he knew what happened next was inevitable, regrettable, unforgettable.

Inopportune.

She kisses him. And those kisses just feel wrong, ugly, disgusting. And Rose is all he can think about as he kisses the girl back.

(What the hell is he playing at, kissing her back? He doesn't even know her bloody name.)

He kisses her with a frenzied passion, releasing his pent-up emotions, feelings, love. He just needs someone to fucking love, and that girl was Rose's replacement. Scorpius knows it's completely immoral, what he's doing, but his mind is progressing at the speed of a tortoise and he can't get a single thought in his dazed mind to make any fucking sense.

Merlin, he just wants Rose.

She runs her fingers through his hair and he stifles a groan as his hands wander to her waist. Lower, lower, lower. She moans and arches her back as their kisses deepen, and she hitches a leg around his torso, making him groan with pleasure.

Shit.

Bugger.

What is he doing? This isn't Rose.

This. Isn't. Rose.

He can't cheat on Rose with some desperate tease. He _loves _Rose.

(Doesn't he?)

But the drunken, irrational part of his mind protests against the rational, internal voice speaking. And his hands move to cup her bum tightly against him as her _iceiceice _cold fingers travel beneath his shirt. He shivers. He closes his eyes. He wills himself to forget Rose for a moment and just snog without a single thought consuming the recesses of his mind, whispering guilt, shame, dishonour.

A strangled sob. A disbelieving gasp. A horrified intake of breath.

(Rose?)

He shoves the random bird off of him and turns his face to discover Rose, his Rose, standing there with bitter tears threatening to leak from her eyes.

"Shit, Rose. This—I—You—"

"Save it, Malfoy," she snaps and flounces off with brokenness and ire poisoning her shattered pride.

He doesn't care about what the airheaded bird is thinking right now. He needs to make Rose forget about it, forgive him, love him again despite his weaknesses. Merlin, he doesn't know what he'd do if she didn't. Loving her is the most natural thing in the world, but bloody hell, he didn't realise how hard it is to work at a relationship. Especially a forbidden one, at that.

He runs after her and harshly pins her against the wall when he catches up to her. Scorpius gulps when he notices the tear tracks tattooing her beautiful, sweet face. And his heart just breaks even more upon knowing that _he _was the one to cause those tears. They don't speak. They don't breathe. They just stare at each other for a moment that seems like ages. Just Rose Nymphadora Weasley and Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy looking at each other, drinking in the sight of each other, and from their auras ebb regret, sorrow, desperation. She doesn't know how to trust him, if she should trust him. He wants her to know that she can still trust him, that she should still trust him.

A promise lingers in his eyes, whispering that he won't botch things up again, that he'll love her forever. Another tear slips out of her beautiful blue eyes, and he feels tears of his own well up in his grey eyes. Remorse claws at his scarred heart, suffocating him with the desolation of helplessness. He knows he broke her fragile heart but his selfish desires propel him to beg for her love, forgiveness, trust. He knows he doesn't deserve her, someone as beautiful as her from the inside out. But he needs her. He bloody needs her.

"Rose, I'm sorry. Please, I'll do anything," he pleads, sounding like some sort of foolish lovesick ponce with the unwelcome taste of irony in his words.

(Funny thing is, he _is _that foolish lovesick ponce in the Muggle films now.)

She looks down and shakes her head, refusing to look at him. Godric knows she'll say yes because she can't say no to that face. She still finds it hard to believe that she hated him a few months ago. _Hated_. Was it hate? Or was it budding love morbidly concealed in a form of hate? She doesn't know anymore. She's caught in the middle of a storm tossing her to and fro and she's dizzy, smothered, drowning from the confusion of decisions and choices and thoughts and beliefs.

"I…can't. I just can't deal with this…you, right now," she mumbles feebly.

They stand once again in silence, shrouded in tangible emotions carving their way into their skin, their hearts, their beings. His hand trembles as he reaches out to touch her face, and he nearly allows a tear to fall when she leans her cheek against his calloused hand.

Nothing about them, Rose and Scorpius, makes sense.

And there just aren't any words left to say.

/

_Scorpius,_

/

He passes by her seated form in the Great Hall and nearly stops to say hello when he remembers that they weren't supposed to be dating in the first place, that they aren't on speaking terms. Or so he assumes. Because how can they interact, talk, laugh after everything that has happened?

She looks up to see his retreating form as he saunters over to the Slytherin table, where his housemates clap him on his back and he looks utterly normal with a usual smirk dancing upon his lips, normal with no sign of misery, brokenness, loss. Does their separation mean nothing to him? How can he act so _normally_? Whenever she peers at his face, she longs to run her fingers across his cheeks, smooth his eyebrows, touch his lips.

And just stare at him.

She could stare at his face forever, the aristocratic features unmistakably marking him a replica of a Greek god. And she just wants to fall into his embrace, she just wants him to hold her, hold her like he did those nights along moonlit stoned paths.

(Is it too much to ask?)

It's like the end of an adrenaline rush. Everything happened so quickly, like an impossible smattering of images and words blurring together into a swirl of confusion as fragmented memories flash by. Sometimes, he wonders if it really is—_was_—love. Was love supposed to be this frenetic? Foolish? Heartbreaking?

Perplexing?

He wonders if he'll find love again because Rose isn't his anymore. They weren't meant to work out, anyways.

(So, why did they even bother trying in the first place?)

/

_Maybe. _

/

He thinks he sees her. Only once, in Flourish and Blotts.

He rarely visits bookshops. But he does this one time to purchase his mother a gift for her birthday. It is a fleeting glance of heartbroken blue into heartbroken grey. It is a moment of flashbacks when suddenly everything rewinds back to the beginning as vivid images of their first kiss, their love letters, their meaningful conversations, their first utterance of those three little words whirl across his vision.

(Is the same thing happening to her?)

She thinks she sees him in the corner by the leather-bound journals section at Flourish and Blotts. And she looks away before she can be mercilessly bombarded by locked-away memories. No, she mustn't dwell upon the alluringly forbidden past; her memories of _ScorpiusScorpiusScorpius _need to stay locked up and buried deep within the caverns of her mind. She mustn't dwell upon the fact that Scorpius is —_was_—the only one that could make her laugh, smile, and cry within seconds. She mustn't dwell upon the fact that his infamous smirk (no, his rare smile) could turn her legs to jelly.

She must forget about him. She must.

"Rose?" a hesitant voice calls.

She turns around to see Lysander waiting for her. Allowing a weak smile to rearrange her features, she allows him to kiss her cheek as she gathers her books and leaves the shop.

He allows his gaze to refocus on the journal he's buying for his mother. But he can't concentrate after seeing Scamander kiss _her cheek_. He doesn't even bother to examine the designs of other journals as he trudges over to the counter to pay for it. Leaving the shop in a daze infused with rage, he nearly splinches himself when apparating home. Scorpius ignores the voices of his mother and father as he rushes upstairs to his room and slams the door. Resting his elbows on his desk, he puts his head in his hands as he wills himself to cry his emotions out, sobs wracking his body.

(Malfoys get everything they want. He got everything he didn't want. How is that even logical?)

Yes, their story is a sad one of broken kisses, broken hearts, broken boundaries, broken people.

It isn't the average fairytale one would expect with a typical conclusion of happily-ever-afters.

But the thing is, they never once regretted loving each other. Not once.

And that's what matters most.

/

_-Rose._

/

* * *

**A/N: If you didn't notice, the italicised parts between the fragments of their story are letters they write to each other, and obviously they're written after they're out of Hogwarts. Anyways, I hope you liked this! I was going for a more poetic, prose-y style in this one.**

**Much love for Kerr and Nina for critiquing this and motivating me to finish this!**

**And, please don't favourite without reviewing! =)**

**-nic.**


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